Avenged
by Zillah 91
Summary: Sort of my interpretation of Ghost Rider. Johnny Blaze gets what should be a simple mission: hunt down five demon escapees from hell, and he gets his soul back. But he's about discover a secret that will change the way he views his curse forever. Ch.6 up
1. The Man Comes Around

Ok: this is my first attempt at a Ghost Rider story, which is surprising really considering how much I love old flamehead. Basically, this is my sort of interpretation of Ghost Rider, based on both the comic-book and movie versions (I like to think the best parts of both). Opinions from anyone on the characterisation of Ghost Rider and how his powers are used are very welcome. Well, enjoy.

Ghost Rider is © Marvel Comics.

* * *

AVENGED

CHAPTER ONE:

THE MAN COMES AROUND

The sound of the gunshots echoed off into the nothingness of the night with the final note of two empty shells hitting the gas station floor. Compared to the deafening noise that had come out of the handgun, the bodies of the two teenagers hitting the floor were almost silent. Even without the dull, inescapably final "thuds" as they fell, it was impossible not to know they were dead. The boy had died first, the gaping red hole in his forehead remaining from when the bullet had gone in. The girl took about a minute longer, but she would be dead long before the ambulance got there to find her lungs full of blood.

"Oh God," the clerk gasped, shaking and trembling with his hands in the air, "Oh Jesus Christ, you killed them!"

One of the two robbers laughed. It made the clerk almost break out into terrified sobs. He was actually laughing. His breath reeked of alcohol and pot as he turned the gun on the clerk. "Now gimme the register," he grimaced, "or you're next, fatass. C'mon, move it!"

"Get the money!" One of the other two shouted at him as he emptied the refridgerator, carrying armloads of beer, as the third loaded his arms and jacket up with cigarettes. As he moved towards the door, he looked down at one of the bodies. "Aw, freakin nice."

"Whut?"

"Rolex, man," the second said as he dropped a few cans in leaning down to pry the watch off the dead boy.

"H- Here," the clerk said, shaking, as he removed the drawer from the register and handed it over, "just- just take it and go alright?"

The gun went off again.

The clerk fell back, his hands clutching the damp, widening red spot on his gut. A trickle of blood leaked from the mouth as he dropped down against the wall, leaving a thick, smeared red trail.

"Got everything, man," the third robber said as he kicked the door open, "not a damn cop in sight. C'mon."

Then the three were out the door, no police for miles and three dead innocents inside. They loaded up their car and laughed about it as one of them fumbled for his keys.

In the silence after the gunshots, the only sound was that of a distant motorcycle engine. After a few seconds, one of them looked up to see that it was growing louder.

"Company, man," the one with the gun said, "want I should plug him?"

"It's all you, man," one of the others said as he climbed into the car, "I say leave it. Let him get a surprise, huh?"

"Nah, man," the third said, "listen to that." The bike was closer now, and from the sound, it was a hell of a ride. "That engine, man. Sounds like the end of the damn world."

Then one of them looked at the source of the noise.

At the orange glow in the middle of the road, and the trail of flame that started to dwindle in the distance.

"Jesus shit," he gaped, eyes widening as a joint dropped from his mouth, "is that thing freaking on fire?"

The sound of the engine built to a crescendo. In each of the three robbers, something made of fear began to gnaw away at the stomach. The burning glow became close, with a sudden rush of speed, and…

Stopped.

"Mother of God…"

No bike, no custom job in the world, could be like that. Its metal body looked like twisted bones, and on the front, where the headlight shoot be, was what looked like a long, howling, horse's skull, all impossibly clean and gleaming. On each thick, ribbed tyre looked to be a layer of rolling, crackling flame.

But the bike was nothing compared to what was on it. The gloved hands, knuckles marked with metal spikes, released the handlebars as club-tipped boots stepped down and the figure, garbed in leather biker gear, stepped down. On each shoulder were three long, sharp metal spikes. A metal chain was wrapped tight around the torso, and a shotgun, its stock and barrel covered in twisted protrusions of chain, hung on the back. But it was the head, the only exposed part of the body, that none of the three robbers could stop staring at.

It was- and there was simply no other way of getting around it- a walking, flaming skeleton. Bright orange flames surrounded its skull and seeped out of any gap in its clothing, and rolling fires in its eye sockets burned like the depths of hell.

At first, it didn't even look at them. Then the nightmare thing raised a hand and pointed at the three thugs. Its bone of a lower jaw spoke, and it said, in a voice that sounded like thunder driven mad: "_You…"_ then the skull turned up and the rolling pits of flame that were its eyes fixed on them.

"_Guilty_."

Then the chain snaked off, coiling like lightning into its owner's hand, and snapped forward with impossible speed. It struck the head of the thug on the left, a shower of blood falling from his face as its spiked end buried itself in his skull.

"Game over!" One of them yelled, turning and fleeing, swaying like a drunken, terrified animal, "Game over, man!" Before he was out of the station, the chain wrapped around his throat and pulled him back to slam against the hood of the car.

The demon raised one hand, smoke coiling from its fingertips, and a ball of churning flame burst into being in the centre of its palm.

"Shit…" the one with the gun squeaked, "Oh shit, God, man, I…" he turned and fled, the thing seemingly ignoring him as it pulled back its arm and hurled the fireball into the car.

The third only heard the explosion from behind before the shockwave and the heat hit him. He hit the ground hard, screaming as his arm broke and the fireball that had been the gas station billowed upwards. He cringed and cried out as his back burned, chunks of burning ash raining down.

He felt the thing's hands grab him by the back of the neck, turn him over and pick him up, until he was looking down into the eyes of the monster.

"Look into my eyes…"

The eyes seemed to deepen, the flames parting into a sea of deeper, hotter fire that went down and down forever. And all the killer could do was stare down into them…

And scream as every memory, every crime, every beating and murder and rape, came flooding back in one awful, white-hot wave, and he felt every moment of pain, every scream of helplessness, and every burning, horrible death…

Then the demon dropped the charred, emaciated skeleton to the cold, harsh ground. It paid the corpse no thought as it turned, walked back to the smoking husk of the gas station, walked through the flames without pain, mounted its unscathed bike and rode off into the distance on a trail of fire and a roaring engine.

And why should it? They had received their punishment. The innocent had been avenged.

"Vengeance is served."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Blaze!"

Johnny stirred under the covers, groaning tiredly as he squinted in the intrusive sunlight.

"Blaze!"

He sat up, coughing slightly and rubbing the crud out of his eyes. He became aware of a heavy knocking at the door that seemed even louder. Even the rustling of the sheets seemed deafening. He remembered why as soon as he saw the empty bottle of Jack Daniel's next to the bed.

"Blaze, either you answer me or I call the damn cops!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Johnny croaked as he stood up, shirtless, and made his way through the cramped, messy motel room. He pulled the door open just as the sweaty, overweight man on the other side was about to knock again.

"Yeah?" Johnny groaned, leaning on the side of the doorway for support.

"Rent," the landlord fumed.

"Yeah," Johnny recalled, "yeah, Mister Putrelli, you- you'll get it. When- when's it due?"

"Last week."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'."

"You'll get it. End of the week."

"End of the week," Putrelli pointed a thick sausage-finger at him, "or I kick your bum ass out of here."

The door slammed shut in Johnny's face.

"Christ," Johnny groaned, stepping back into the room and opening the fridge. It looked like breakfast was a choice between his last fresh piece of fruit and a mouldy piece of half-eaten cheese. He needed to stock up.

He needed to pay the rent.

He needed a job.

He needed to stop getting drunk.

And it wouldn't hurt if, just once in a while, he could not turn into a flaming skeleton at night.

Still, "you never know", he always told himself, and today was the day for the interview. For the position as a library assistant. Hardly exciting compared to turning into the infamous Ghost Rider, but he needed some kind of income, and vigilantism didn't pay like it used to. Besides, he'd been to the library before, and it had more than a few books on demons and the occult; just the sort of thing that the host to the Spirit of Vengeance might want to brush up on.

He took a cold shower, partly to wake himself up and partly because his hot water had been cut off, dressed, and before long was out the door, smoothing down his leather jacket. Out on the railing, he descended the stairs to the parking lot and was, as ever, that little bit relieved to see his custom-made, non-supernatural-looking bike sat there immobile.

"You made the papers again."

Johnny looked round just as he put his hand on the handlebars. The old, bearded man who turned the page in his hands was decked out in a cowboy-style jacket, boots and hat, his aged face creased in a low chuckle.

"Not right now, Carter."

"You do realise you blew up a gas station, right?"

"Damnit, Carter, not right now," Johnny griped as he climbed onto the bike. "Wait, what?"

"Couple miles out of town. Whole place burned with six corpses."

"Couple of punks," Johnny recalled. "Three." At least, he believe there were three. Memories from a night as the Rider were always blurry, mainly because it wasn't Johnny Blaze in the driver's seat. "They'd killed some people inside."

"Apparently the cops found a dead rapist with his head knocked through a brick wall and a woman who'd just murdered her husband hanging from her ceiling fan."

Johnny flinched. That sounded brutal even for the Rider.

"You've been drawing a lot of attention to yourself lately," Carter said as he folded up the paper. "I were you, I'd lay low for a while."

"Not my call," Johnny muttered as the bike's engine rumbled to life. "I gotta go."

The roar of the bike grew before it rolled out of the parking lot and away down the street. Carter watched as it rounded the corner, and then shook his head in quiet bemusement.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Johnny's bike rolled idly into the parking lot as he dropped it down a gear and let it slide into place alongside a rusty old white minivan. He moved one foot back to kick the stand down…

Then the devil howled in his face, flying out of nowhere with nothing to shield him. Involuntarily, Johnny's muscles lurched back and to the side. He hit the ground hard, and the bike hit the ground with a heavy, metal clang. By the time he looked up, the vision was gone.

"Sorry, Johnny-boy," the harsh, grating voice said from behind him, "couldn't resist."

Johnny turned. Of course he knew that voice. He'd never forget it as long as he lived.

The thing was that the thin, grey-haired old man in the black velvet suit with the cane hadn't been there when he arrived.

"You…" Johnny seethed, his fists tightening and his eyes filling with flame. Then, in a flesh of dark, hellish light, every inch of skin and muscle burned away, the flames coating the gleaming bone.

The devil gave a wry smile, tapping his cane idly on the ground. "Please, Johnny," he chuckled, "you know I'm not here to do anything. Now change back before somebody sees you."

"_What do you want_?" The Ghost Rider rumbled, flames billowing from his mouth with every word.

Mephistopheles smiled again and folded his hands over on top of the cane.

"How about a drink on me?" he said, then added, in a deliberately thick southern accent, "I gots a proposition for ya."

* * *

A few notes on this chapter:

-Yeah, I based the Caretaker and Mephistopheles on the movie versions a lot. I just liked the movie's Caretaker, and it makes sense to me that Mephistopheles would assume human form for conducting business with Johnny.

-How did I do with characterising Johnny, Ghost Rider, etc.? I kind of figured he'd talk differently depending on whether Johnny or Rider provoked the transformation.

-I can't really decide whether to have any internal dialogue between Johnny and Zaratohs/Ghost Rider/The Spirit of Vengeance/Whatever you wanna call it. Part of me likes the notion of the conflict, and part of me also likes the idea of a more unified, focused Ghost Rider.

-Yeah, I gave GR the hellfire-shotgun, which I'm not sure he ever has in the comics. I just like it, is all. I might give him a machete or something too, since I have this awesome image in my head of Ghost Rider "swordfighting" with an enemy.

Much of the back story for my interpretation of the character will be revealed as we go along; this will include becoming the Ghost Rider and meeting the Caretaker. I'm going to do it mostly in flashback so I don't have to wait too long before actually bringing the Ghost Rider into things, especially considering how much he's going to be doing in this story. All I'll say now is that copious quantities of ass will be kicked.

Anyway, all reviews are welcome!


	2. The Job

Chapter 2. Enjoy!

Ghost Rider is © Marvel

* * *

CHAPTER TWO:

THE JOB

So, Johnny thought to himself, here they were. Here he was, sitting in a coffee shop opposite Mephistopheles. Lucifer. The Adversary. Prince of Lies. Satan himself. Or so he claimed.

"You know, I love this place," Mephisto said as he took a sip of coffee, "the crass commercialisation, the crappy cheap horror movies, the even crappier expensive ones…" he set the coffee cup down. "So, Johnny: how's life been treating you?"

Johnny leaned back on his chair, arms folded, and glared back at him.

"How do you think?"

As he sat and stared at the devil, every image of what had happened, burned into the back of his brain for all those years, kept flooding back.

This isn't even surprising. That was all he could think. All those years. All those endless nights. It started that night when he turned up.

No. Not then. Just earlier.

It was back in the old days. Back at the Quentin Carnival. Back with Dad.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Barton Blaze cursed loudly to himself as he dropped the wrench onto the metal floor. Behind him, the rhythmic whirring of Johnny's maintenance on his own bike continued._

_"Son," Barton finally said, "you're a reckless young man."_

_Johnny, so much younger then, he couldn't have been older than eighteen, looked over. "What?"_

_"You know how lucky you are that you aren't taking a dirt nap after this morning?" Barton said levelly. "You're head weren't in that jump, boy, and you know it."_

_Johnny didn't look away from the bike. "Guess not, dad. Sorry."_

_Barton chuckled quietly. "Roxanne, huh?"_

_Johnny paused._

_"You two going out tonight?" Barton asked with another chuckle. Johnny's face was flushed red with embarrassment._

_"You don't like her," Johnny said quietly._

_"I don't expect you to know what I'm talking about, kid," Barton said. "Couldn't help overhearing you two the other day."_

_"…What?"_

_"You two talking about marriage? Johnny-boy, you're eighteen."_

_"You weren't much older when you met mom," Johnny said bitingly, then froze. That wasn't something he meant to bring up. "Sorry."_

_"No, no," Barton said as he slid out from under the bike, "I dunno," he sighed, leaning back and lighting up a cigarette, "I dunno. I weren't much older than you and I married your mother, and…" he didn't need to say anything else._

_When Johnny was ten, his mother Naomi had filed for divorce, clear out of the blue. Maybe the worst part was that she cried when she did it. She told Barton it wasn't his fault. After the court case, Barton had custody of Johnny, and Naomi left with his little brother Danny._

_"You go on and see that girl, hotshot," Barton said kindly, "I'll finish tuning these up for you."_

_Johnny smiled back. "Thanks, Dad."_

_He got up and walked out, listening to his father whistle to himself as he got back to work. After Johnny was gone, Barton breathed a heavy sigh, leaned back and muttered something quietly to himself. Then his eyes started to well up, and he whispered something that sounded like "God, I'm so sorry, my boy…"_

_Johnny went straight from the bike shed, through the crowds of tourists, even stopping to sign an autograph for a couple of people on the way. It always felt weird doing that, but then again, he was someone who'd broken a world record the day after his eighteenth birthday._

_He entered his and his father's trailer and changed into his favoured shirt, jeans and leather jacket, then, when he was leaving, he saw the piece of paper poking out from under a pile. Normally he'd have thought nothing of it- except for the medical seal on the bottom of the letter._

_When he picked it up, he got everything he needed from the first few words:_

_Mr. Blaze: We regret to inform you that we have isolated your cancer, but it appears to be inoperable…_

_Johnny felt himself tremble as he put the envelope down._

_And that was how it had all started._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Roxanne found Johnny at their usual meeting place outside the Carnival. He was sat with his back to the tree where they'd carved their initials nearly a year ago._

_"Johnny?"_

_"Huh?" Johnny looked up sharply. "Oh. Hey." His face was wet and streaked, and the edges of his eyes were red._

_"Johnny? What's wrong?" Roxanne asked softly, sitting down next to him._

_"N-nothing," Johnny said quickly. "Nothing."_

_He couldn't tell her. How could he? How could he begin to tell anyone what was going on inside his head?_

_And that was what gave the devil his chance._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_That was the night Johnny Blaze's fate was sealed. The night he spent working on his bike when there was no work to be done. Anything to avoid having to go inside and look at his father, knowing what was happening to him._

_"Excuse me. Johnny, isn't it?"_

_Johnny slid out from under the bike. He didn't recognise the voice, or the slim, grey-haired old man who had spoken._

_"Who wants to know?" he finally said in response._

_"Sorry to interrupt," the man said, stepping in with a cane he didn't look like he needed. "I'm a big fan, and… I'd like to make you an offer."_

_"If you're from MTV, I'm still not interested."_

_"Oh, no, no, no. I'm… something of an entrepreneur," the visitor said. "And… I do have an expansive knowledge of medicine, if that interests you."_

_Johnny froze. Medicine? As in…?_

_"I'd like to make a deal with you, Johnny," the man said, "what would it be worth to you if I could heal your old man right up? If I told you that, by morning, he'd be fit as a fiddle?"_

_Johnny should have said no. He should have just walked away. Instead, he simply stood and said, rather dumbly, "well, I- I don't have much money…"_

_The man's thin mouth smiled. "I'm sure we can work something out."_

_When Johnny woke up the following morning, he couldn't remember any of the conversation._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_"Dad?"_

_Johnny found his father inside the big top, already preparing his bike. He was grinning from ear to ear._

_"Hey there, boy," he chuckled, "Jesus, you look shaken like a short nun on a penguin hunt. Something happen?"_

_"N-no," Johnny said reflexively as Barton walked away from the bike. "Listen, Dad, is… if there was something wrong…?"_

_"Oh." Barton paused. "Did you…?"_

_"I read the letter," Johnny said. His eyes were starting to well up._

_Then, impossible, Barton smiled._

_"Nothing to worry about, boy," he beamed, "Just had a check-up this morning, and it's gone."_

_Johnny stood dumbfounded. "It's what?"_

_"Gone," Barton half-laughed with a shrug, "docs can't explain it, but… well, I feel fit as a fiddle."_

_Johnny cried. It was impossible to do anything else. Then he hugged his father and they both laughed for at least five minutes before it was time for the jump._

_Johnny smiled as he watched his father's bike descend the ramp…_

_Take off…_

_Lean to the side…_

_Too far…_

_And then, Johnny Blaze watched his father burn to death._

_That was when his vengeance was born._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_"Good evening."_

_The voice jarred Johnny awake, having fallen asleep barely a moment ago. How could he have slept, after that? His pillow was still damp from tears._

_"Just checking in on our arrangement," the grey-haired old man said. "After all…" he pulled out an old, rolled parchment and unravelled it slowly, "we were in agreement, were we not?"_

_There it was. On the bottom of the parchment. Johnny Blaze. Clear as day._

_"You son of a bitch!" Johnny roared, launching himself at the devil… who simply took a step to the side and watched him crash to the floor. "You cheated me, you bastard!" he yelled, swinging at him again._

_"The deal," Mephistopheles said levelly, "was that I would cure the cancer. That was the deal. And you, Johnny-cakes, are under contract."_

_Then something struck the back of the devil, splintering into a thousand wooden pieces, and a girl's voice shouted "Get away from him!" and there was Roxanne, her hands tight on the two remaining chair legs._

_"What th- did you just hit me with a chair?" Lucifer shouted, still wincing from the blow, "Damnit, that ****ing hurt!"_

_"Who the hell are you?" Roxanne demanded, dropping the remains of the chair. "Johnny, what was he talking about?"_

_The devil looked up. He looked Johnny, then back to Roxanne, and his eyes turned ice-cold and full of hate._

_"Alright, then," he finally said. "Be back later."_

_There was a flash of fire and brimstone, and he was gone. The room was filled by the crushing silence that followed._

_"Roxanne…" Johnny started._

_"Just- just tell me what happened," Roxanne said quietly, "please."_

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Johnny still wasn't sure what had happened that previous night. It all seemed like some bizarre, bad dream, but he'd still spent the night awake, with his old weighted bike chain under the bed. Then, at six a.m., he got up, unable to sleep._

_He suddenly felt warm. Then hot, then boiling. He kicked off the sheets, and stood up still sweltering. His skin started to feel like it was under the fiercest sun he could ever imagine._

_He winced as the burning pain grew, blistering at his skin. Before he took a step, he staggered, and then fell, as his entire body started to feel like it was burning._

_Then he looked up, and there stood the devil again._

_"Surprised to see me?" Mephistopheles grinned darkly, "Boy, Johnny… you really look like hell."_

_"W… what did you do?" Johnny shouted, falling to one side as his skin felt like it was touching a soldering iron._

_"You know, Johnny… love is an interesting thing," Mephisto began as he started pacing the room, "it can lead people to do some stupid things- as I shouldn't have to remind you- but the thing is, it can also be one hell of a defence, if you'll pardon the pun. Now, that girlfriend of yours… see, I can't touch your soul," he said, kneeling down in front of Johnny, "because it's practically hers already. That kind of love… that's the real thing. True. Pure. And mainly, it means that I can't touch you."_

_Johnny howled in pain as his skin, with white-hot, burning agony, started to peel and burn away._

_"So," Mephisto grinned wickedly, "if I can't take you to hell… I figured I might as well just bring hell to you."_

_And that was the first time Johnny Blaze became the Ghost Rider._

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mephistopheles sat back and took another sip of coffee.

"Whatever you're offering this time," Johnny said venomously, "you can go right back home."

"Oh, I would, Johnny," Mephisto said, "but unfortunately, this is something that requires your… expert intervention. After all, that is your job now. That's what it does."

Something clicked in Johnny's head.

"Escapees," Mephisto confirmed, "five of them. They escaped from hell a few weeks ago. And as you know, rule number one of the truce between me and Heaven is that I don't let demons out on Earth."

"If anything gets out," Johnny said, "the Rider goes after it anyway."

"Oh, I know," Mephisto said, "but I just wanted to be absolutely sure on this one. It's a personal interest, you see… in fact," he grinned thinly, "I'd be prepared to make another deal."

"Shove it," Johnny said automatically.

"Oh, don't be so sure," Mephisto said gregariously, "just see how you like this idea: send these five back- which is, after all, something your other half would already do for free- and I'll relieve you of your current predicament."

"…you'll… what? Take it back?"

"Oh, yes," Mephisto said, "I gave you the Rider, and I can take it away. A simple exchange of services; that's all I'm suggesting."

He stood up, left some money for his coffee and walked out.

"Think about it, Johnny."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So I says to this girl, I tell her straight…"

"Listen, Darlene, I know the stuff I said was…"

"Hey, Jules, you remember that guy who…"

The dull hubble of the bar was cut off when the door was bushed open, the bell above it jingling as the tall, thin young man, by his appearance no older than 19, stepped in.

"Well, know," he chuckled, hands in his pockets, "this looks like a right friendly watering hole." A dark, purple, began to form in his eyes. "Can a brother from down south drop in?"

* * *

Notes:

-So that's Ghost Rider's origin here, though there's actually more to come on it. The idea was to combine the movie and comic book origin stories.

-Among our five antagonists will be two classic Ghost Rider villains. Anyone care to take a stab at who they are?

-The scene with Roxanne striking Mephisto, and his subsequent line, were inspired by a similar scene from Being Human.

-The bar scene at the end there is basically ripped right out of Ghost Rider Annual #1. I just love the scene, and I think it's a good way to introduce… actually, anyone care to guess at who that is?

All Reviews Welcome!


	3. Hot Time in the Old Town

Here we are, then: chapter 3. Enjoy.

Ghost Rider is © Marvel

* * *

CHAPTER THREE:

HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN

_The first time Johnny became the Ghost Rider was the hardest._

_That night, he tracked down a biker gang that had left nearly a dozen dead bodies in a run-down bar. There were seven of them; the Rider ran the first two off the road and blew up the third's bike. The chain saw to the fourth, and Ghost Rider broke the fifth one's neck with his own two hands. The sixth had his skull fractured when the spirit slammed it into a tree trunk. The chain wrapped round the third, lit on fire and burned him to death._

_At least, he'd thought that would be the hardest. Maybe it was; the first time the flames burned away every last inch of skin and flesh, seared to ash everything that was Johnny Blaze until only the Rider remained._

_Maybe it was the second time. Quite possibly._

_That had been when… he didn't like to think about that one. If anything, because it had been so easy for the Rider to do it._

_Perhaps it was the third time? Of the thirtieth?_

_Actually, the thirtieth time was easy. He just found the demon that had been talking people all over town into killing themselves and kicked him off a rooftop, the same way most of its victims had gone._

_But somehow, it never got any easier. Every time he turned into the Ghost Rider, it felt like his very soul was on fire with all the burning, raging torment of hell eternal. And with that came the knowledge that the only way for it to ever stop would be if he used that fire._

_The only option was to take the Rider's power, its grand, terrible, frightful power, and enact vengeance upon those who deserved it._

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dull hubble of the bar was cut off when the door was bushed open, the bell above it jingling as the tall, thin young man, by his appearance no older than 19, stepped in.

"Well, now," he chuckled, hands in his pockets, "this looks like a right friendly watering hole." A dark, purple, began to form in his eyes. "Can a brother from down south drop in?"

The bar fell quiet.

The young man chuckled to himself, hands in his pockets, and strode across the bar. "Three fingers, my good man," he smiled, flashing that number of digits to the barman.

The barman looked him up and down. "You got any ID, buddy?"

"Come again?" The man chuckled.

"If you ain't over twenty-one, I ain't serving."

The man chuckled to himself. He looked back up, as if trying to repress a massive outburst of laughter. "Just give me three fingers of whiskey before I tear your throat out, you fat son of a bitch."

"Listen, punk…"

With lightning speed, the youth reached up, grabbed the bartender's head and slammed it into the bar. The wooden surface buckled and shattered in a spurt of blood as the bartender's skull split open.

"Jeez," the youth muttered, his eyes having suddenly turned a dark blue-purple, "Centurious was right. They are that fragile. Meh." He hopped across the bar, "might as well get it myself…"

He paid no nevermind to the panicked screams and desperate running that had started the moment he'd smashed the bartender's head open. At least, not until he'd selected a bottle of Jack Daniel's and one of the patrons was pointing a handgun at the back of his head.

"Oh, for…"

He cleared the bar in a second, and the gun's owner was dead on the ground before the sound of the shot silenced. The demon stood up and looked down at the thick bruise on the man's neck.

The demon's skin was now dark-blue, jagged curved teeth emerging from the top and bottom of his mouth and small horns jutting from his forehead.

"Oh, man," he chuckled as those in the bar still scrambled for the door, "I am gonna love it here…"

With one hand, he lifted a table and hurled it across the room, effortlessly blocking the only exit.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In life, the second of the escapees may well have been quite beautiful. She still had that womanly shape and bearing, even if she was covered in a layer of thick, black skeletal armour and a sheer black covering that concealed her face.

"He'd better be back soon," she said distantly.

"I can't really say I care," the old man beside her muttered. Long grey hair hung down in wisps around his withered body and the blood-red robe that covered it. "He's a spoilt little sociopath who'd turn the rest of us back over to Mephistopheles in a heartbeat if there were anything in it for him."

"He got us out," the female demon pointed out.

"And not out of any love for us. Speaking of which…" the old man turned around, "I trust I can count on your… continued participation, my dear Black Rose?"

The woman's eyes turned down beneath the black mask. "Of course," she said coldly.

"Excellent."

"So," a third voice joined them. "When do we start?" The thirty-something-year-old man, scruffy and clad in a wool cap, jacket and jeans, emerging from the liquor store had just downed an entire bottle of scotch. "Haven't had this tuff in sixty years. Still tastes like wood," he slurred. "So when do we get started, huh?"

"Oh, I dare say we've begun already," the old man chuckled to himself.

"And what about him?" the man asked.

"If Blackheart can't smoke the Rider out, nothing can."

"Centurious, my man," the scruffy one giggled to himself, "You're a genius, man. Genius."

"Yes, thank you Shade," Centurious said disinterestedly. "Just remember, all of you: if you're facing the Rider, you're expendable. Until we get what we're here for, and then Mephistopheles' favourite puppet is irrelevant. So, unless Razorwire has anything to add to this forum?"

The last demon, slumped in the shadows, true to his name, had coils of barbed wire coiling around him like living tendrils. He shook his head slowly from side to side.

"Very well," Centurious muttered, "let's just hope Blackheart can restrain himself enough to carry out his end of things."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Fill her up, buddy?"

"…Sorry, what?" Johnny asked, turned round and caught by surprise.

"The bike."

"Oh. Yeah, please," Johnny nodded.

"Sure thing, bud."

As the gas station attended set to work, Johnny hoped he'd have enough for a tip and turned his attention back to the TV screen inside the truck stop.

There she was, right there on the screen, large as life. Her tan skin, chestnut-brown hair…

Roxanne Simpson. Love of his life.

Reporting from right there in his town. She was back.

He could go and see her, he thought. Just for a little while.

No. No, he shouldn't. She didn't need to see him again. Not after what he'd done to himself, or to her.

"Thanks, man," he said quietly, paying the attendant and kicking his bike into gear.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was the only one left.

The girl forced back a sob. She couldn't let him hear here, hidden down in the cellar.

She hadn't even tried to help. She'd just fled down there, her friends' blood all over her, and listen to the massacre that was happening upstairs.

And hear him laughing as he cut them to ribbons.

She pushed herself back as she heard the sound of movement from upstairs, sobbing and praying that he wouldn't find her.

Then the cellar door opened.

"Last woman standing," Blackheart grinned. "Impressive."

The girl reached to one side, desperately searching for something, anything, to defend herself with."

"Tell you what," Blackheart chuckled, "I'll make a deal with you…" he knelt down in front of her. "I'll let you live. You can walk out of here without so much as a scratch.

His eyes began to glow red.

"But it'll cost you."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It looked like Johnny was going to be late with the rent again; still, he'd needed the tank of gas at least as much. The visit would be important, and it didn't take a genius to see that a flaming skeleton would attract way too much attention.

The old cemetery in Cypress Hills was now attended by only a single caretaker- an old man, even older than his withered appearance, named Carter Slade.

As Johnny's motorcycle slowed to a stop, the rumbling engine echoed across the still, empty field of headstones as Carter heaved another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. With a tired sigh, he leaned on the handle and look over as the bike stopped on the gravel.

"Mornin' hotshot," he said with his usual dry smile, "what can I do you for?"

* * *

And there we go. Black Rose will not be the same character as in the comics, so abandon any notion that the Wikipedia page will help you there. Shade and Razorwire are based loosely on one-time Spider-Man villains, hopefully you'll like what happens with them here.

Next Time: GHOST RIDER VS. THE SHADE

All Reviews Welcome!


	4. The Shade

Chapter the fourth and Ghost Rider's first real fight in the story. Enjoy!

Ghost Rider is © Marvel

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR:

THE SHADE

The Caretaker had a library that would make Johnny's recent hopeful workplace embarrassed. The walls all over the converted mausoleum were covered in bookshelves, the only space being for the door and window, most of them in some or several ways related to the occult and demonology.

Needless to say, Johnny knew exactly who to talk to whenever a situation like this came up.

"So," the Caretaker asked as he leaned his shovel against the wall, "demons, huh?"

"Yeah," Johnny said, "five of them."

"Any names?" The Caretaker asked as he started perusing the shelves.

"No," Johnny said. "I mean, they're demons, right?"

The Caretaker looked blankly at him. "Blaze, do you have an idea how many demons there've been in this country alone over the years?" he asked levelly, "or how many kinds of demons there are?"

Johnny thought. "Lots?"

"To put it mildly. Kid, if you want me to find out what you're dealing with here, I need something to work with. A name, an inscription, what they look like. You have anything of that?"

Johnny shifted awkwardly and looked down at his feet, feeling like a kid who hadn't done his homework. "No."

"Then this was a waste of time, huh?"

"Yeah," Johnny shrugged. "But I know Mephisto was interested."

"Personally?" The Caretaker muttered. "That does narrow it down a little. I'll see if I can at least come up with a few candidates."

"So what should I do?" Johnny asked, looking around at the walls.

"Well, I'd say read up, but it's probably more your skill set to go out and find one of these guys. If they're up here in a group, they're probably planning something. Watch the news for anything unusual, and of course there's always the other option."

Johnny nodded slowly. It looked increasingly like this would be a likely choice.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door into the boardroom office clicked shut. The CEO stepped in, grinning from ear-to-ear and holding a file in one hand.

"So, gentlemen," he said brightly as he sat down, "has anyone else seen the sales figures?"

The heads in the room shook unanimously.

"We dropped fifty percent," the CEO said. "And it's been five years since we've dealt with anything new. So: gentlemen?"

"W-well," one of the members began, "the problem, as I see it, is our…" he trailed off, looking behind the CEO… who turned round to see a young, scruffily-dressed man, no older than nineteen, who had somehow gone unnoticed.

"Hi," he said.

"Somebody call security," the CEO said. Just as one of the executives reached for the phone, a volley of black fire struck it, blasting the machine into a pile of slag.

"Gentlemen," Blackheart began, "I'll be quick about this." He began to walk around the desk, "you all have several things in common… most of which, I'm sure, would irritate most people immensely. For example…" he began to move round, leaning over the chair of each person in turn.

"This gent here used company funds to fly to Thailand in order to have sex with an eleven-year-old…"

"My esteemed friend over here had his mother committed to a loony-bin without trial so he wouldn't have to support her, just so he could buy a new car…"

"This fun-loving fellow beat up her daughter just for talking to a black boy…"

"And you, my friend," he said as he came to the CEO, "have more skeletons in your closet than anyone else in this room."

He patted the back of the chair and walked around each one. "And, even though you don't know it," he went on, "your company is currently under investigation by the FBI. Yes, really," he said to the now-shocked faces, "which means when they find out about what you've been up to behind the scenes- drugs and women, if memory serves- all these other little titbits will come to light as well."

"So," he leaned on the table, "tell me, gentlemen…" his eyes turned dark blue, "what if I said I could make that little problem disappear?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Johnny turned the corner, trying to lose himself in the everyday chaos of the Cypress Hills road system and the roar of the motorcycle.

He wasn't going to be able to find these things by leafing through dusty old books. What he needed to do, he decided, was fall back on instinct…

Specialised instinct.

He kicked the bike into high gear and accelerated, soon moving onto the highway, too fast to be seen. Anyone passing at that moment could have almost sworn that they'd seen the bike burst into flame…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Centurious looked up, arms folded. "And where, exactly, have you been?" he demanded.

"Out," Blackheart shrugged, disembarking from a motorcycle.

"And where did that thing come from?"

"Boosted it," Blackheart said proudly, "owner tried to stop me, thought I couldn't get it just because he was in his garage with it, so I melted his face with a welding torch. You should've been there, man, it was epic!" he grinned madly.

Centurious grumbled something to himself as he tensed, holding back the urge to berate the tearaway more severely.

"Hey," Blackheart said, more defensively, "you've just been sitting around here, old man. Now me, I've been out doing something productive."

"Oh, really?" Centurious asked disbelievingly.

"Oh, yeah," Blackheart grinned, "I've been getting people's souls all freakin' day! You should've seen it, right, there was this one old guy in the house, and all I did was threaten to throw his grandkids into a furnace, then I got his soul _and I did it anyway, it was so awesome_!"

Blackheart's grin suddenly vanished, as he started to look around.

"Where's the Shade?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ah, Jack Daniels," the Shade chuckled to himself as he downed another entire bottle, "always goes down smooth."

Well, he thought, that should do for the night. He'd drunk enough, even if the liquor store's owner was already down. The only problem was that he'd already set off the silent alarm, so…

Ah, there were the sirens now.

The door flew in, two armed officers pointing guns at the back of his head. "Freeze!"

"Hmmm…" the Shade turned round, "no."

One of the cops opened fire. The Shade chuckled. His form seemed to slightly fade, as if slowly starting to disappear…

And the bullet passed right through his head.

"My turn." He threw the empty whiskey bottle, and it smashed into pieces on the cop's forehead, jagged shapes of glass protruding from bloody, pouring wounds.

The other cop fired, just as pointlessly, before the Shade grabbed him, grabbed his head and twisted it all the way round.

"There," he muttered to himself. Well, he should probably be getting back."

He left through the back door, moseying through the alleyway…

And then, he heard the roar of the engine. He saw the deep, bright orange flames from the end of the alley.

"Well my, my," he chuckled to himself, "the man himself."

The Rider stepped down from his bike and pointed a skeletal finger. "Back. To. Hell."

The Shade chuckled, opening his arms. "Okay," he laughed drunkenly, "take your best shot."

In the blink of an eye, Ghost Rider had grabbed the chain and hurled it forwards, its bladed end whipping through the air- and passing through the Shade without pause. Then, as it trailed back, the Shade grabbed the chain and pulled. Unprepared, Ghost Rider staggered, pulled sideways by the momentum, and slammed into the brick wall.

"Come on," the Shade chuckled, "that's just pathetic, man. You're supposed to be the Spirit of Vengeance, for God's sakes! Here, you get three tries- two left. Land one, and you win a stuffed teddy!"

The Rider leapt forward, swinging one spiked fist, and predictably, passing clear through the Shade.

"Jesus," the Shade muttered, "Mephisto was right."

The Rider turned, picking something up. The Shade turned his eyes down, seeing just an empty trashcan lid. "Oh, please…"

The lid was thrown, shooting through the air and passing through just like the last two attempts.

"Yep," the Shade sighed as it bounced off the walls behind him, "just like the old man said: great job, great powers… brain of a trout." He stepped forward, fading back into his full shape as he became solid again. "So let's crack that skull open and have a look, huh?"

And then, while the Shade was completely solid, the lid struck the back of his head. As he reeled, the Rider's face caught his jaw, knocking him back into the brickwork, and while he still flailed, a solid, fiery foot slammed into his chest. The brickwork cracked beneath him.

The Rider stepped back, the chain tightening around his chest.

"What, you're backing off?" The Shade slurred, "Seriously? You actually get the advantage, and then… good lord, man, you have got to be the dumbest dumbass in the history of dumb… asses…"

A ball of flame formed in Ghost Rider's palm.

"Hellfire," the skeleton growled, flames pouring from its mouth, "burns the body. And burns the soul."

The Shade's paled with horrified realisation. Solid or not, hellfire worked on the spirit level as well.

The Rider pulled back his arm and hurled the flame like a baseball. It hit its mark, the Shade screaming as the air around him roared with flame.

Then his body fell, the smoke drifted apart, and the Rider looked down at the bloody, smoking hole in his chest.

"One down."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Uhnnf…" Johnny groaned incoherently, one hand on his aching skull.

He blinked in the sunlight, sitting up on the side of the highway. Slowly, the jumbled memories from the previous night started to surface.

That was always the problem with putting things entirely in the Rider's hand.

They needed to find out about the others, and the Rider, typically, had just waded in and blasted a hole through their only way of doing so.

Grumbling, he sat up and mounted the motorcycle. Just as he did so, a white van pulled up behind him. He was about to leave when a voice from behind him said "Johnny?"

He turned round, and there she was, stepping out of the news van. Roxanne Simpson.

A long moment passed. Neither of them could say anything until Johnny finally broke the heavy silence.

"Well, this is awkward…"

* * *

And that's that. Maybe the fight wasn't spectacular, but it's really just the first sort of skirmish. Plus I'm tired. More next week, possibly.

All Reviews Welcome!


	5. All My Sins

Been a while since I updated, I know. Anyway, Chapter 5.

Ghost Rider is © Marvel

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE:

ALL MY SINS

"So."

"So."

Johnny shifted uncomfortably, idly tapping the side of his coffee cup.

"I wasn't sure if I'd run into you here," Roxanne said.

"I know."

They fell silent again.

"You look good," Johnny said.

"You look…" Roxanne paused. "Actually, you look like a wreck."

"Been a little rough," Johnny admitted. "Still," he added.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Roxanne said. "How long's it been?"

"Four years, three months," Johnny said. "Ever since…"

"Him," Roxanne said. She shuddered.

"Why did you ask me here?" Johnny asked her.

"Missed the old days," Roxanne said. "After… after dad… you just left."

"I couldn't really do much else," Johnny said. "After what happened."

Roxanne took a slow sip of coffee. "I don't blame you."

"I don't know why."

"So is this what you've been doing for four years?"

Johnny nodded slowly. "Been hard to get a job. Tried one last month, but the guy running the place was a paedophile and the Rider snapped his neck."

Roxanne gulped. It looked like she nearly threw up in his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Johnny said quickly, "haven't had many conversations since the carnival."

Roxanne nodded. "So it keeps happening?"

"Pretty much every night," Johnny said. "I only really remember the… the important bits."

Roxanne finished her coffee. "I should probably get back to the station," she said. "Are you staying somewhere?"

"The motel on 5th," Johnny said. "Look, it was nice seeing you again…"

"You too, Johnny. Take care."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Across the street, the figure shrank back into the alley. Razorwire's hands clenched on the barbed wire, wrapping it around his arm. He turned to the figure approaching in the shadows.

"The Shade is dead," Black Rose informed him levelly. "What are you doing here?"

"Casing the joint, you could say," Razorwire shrugged. "Any sign of Blackheart?"

"He's sleeping it off. He got drunk last night and killed three teenagers. With gardening tools. He lied through his teeth and told their families he'd bring them back in exchange for the parents' souls."

"Is it me, or is he sending more souls to the grave than he's getting for us?"

"Centurious says he's got a new plan," Black Rose answered. "Besides, we're close to finding what we came for."

"You really think it's true?" Razorwire asked. "You think the old man can kill the Rider?"

Black Rose glanced at the café. "If anyone can kill him, it's Centurious."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Johnny sighed as he closed the door into his motel room before the landlord could turn up again. He shouldn't have gone to see her; how could he? After what had happened before…

_Crash Simpson looked up at himself in the mirror, sighed and leaned on the dresser. He was coming; without a doubt, he'd be there soon…_

_He heard the motorbike engine come to a stop outside. It was him. He'd looked through those old books of Johnny's, and he knew he was coming for him._

_He wouldn't go down without a fight, he thought as he took the shotgun out of the rack, loaded and pumped it._

"_Come on, you son of a bitch…"_

_The flames were outside the door now._

_The door came flying in on a shower of singed splinters, and the looming, blazing figure of the Ghost Rider stepped in. One finger rose to point at him._

"_You… GUILTY!"_

_The Rider stepped forward. Crash fired and hit it square in the chest. It didn't so much as flinch._

_Then, suddenly, it paused. Its hand wavered._

"_You… Crash…?"_

_  
The flames dissipated. The figure shortened, just slightly, and the fire and smoke vanished. There, dishevelled, pale and ashen, was Johnny Blaze._

"_You…" Johnny breathed, "it's after you? Oh God… Crash, what did you…"_

"_Knew you'd come for me," Crash rumbled, and from the stench on his breath Johnny could tell he was drunk. "Hardly even my fault. Girl needed punishing," he slurred, leaning back on the table, "naw, I don't regret it, even if I know whut that means. Yeah, I done it." He stepped forward. "Might as well say it out loud now, huh? Yeah. Yeah, I did it. Put her in the hospital. That make you mad, Johnny?" he asked, stepping forward. "That's what happens when you fuck my daughter; it's me that gotta teach her a lesson. And you know what I did regret?"_

_He stepped forward._

"_I just wished I'd killed her for seein' a piece of trailer trash like you."_

_There was a fiery flash, Johnny was gone, and the Ghost Rider's hand struck Crash in the stomach and forced him to his knees._

_The Rider's hand rose, surrounded by a sphere of flame._

"_BURN, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"_

_That was the night Crash Simpson burned to death. After his screams subsided, the Rider left him to face his final judgement and rode off into the night. It killed two others that night, but none that Johnny would remember like this._

_Because it was Johnny Blaze, not the Ghost Rider, that had wanted Crash Simpson dead._

He'd killed him. Johnny had broken Roxanne's heart, but that was nowhere near as bad as the fact that he'd sent her father to hell. She lost her father just days after Johnny lost his.

"I'm sorry," he sighed to the empty room, "I'm so sorry, Roxanne…"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Caretaker sighed to himself, idly clearing the mould from the base of one of the headstones. He never even noticed what was behind him.

It was only when he turned around and saw the figure behind him that he froze. Immediately, he brought the shovel whirling up, only for the newcomer to grab it and send him falling to the ground.

"Carter Slade," Black Rose said, "You and I need to talk."

* * *

And that's all for now, for I am sleepy. Short, but hopefully enough in that. What is Centurious' plan, and what kind of agenda is Black Rose pursuing? What's to become of the Caretaker?

Crash Simpson is probably the biggest change I made, mainly to make Johnny's story more tragic and give him more reason to distance himself from Roxanne. Plus it was fun to have the Rider kill someone whom Johnny was pissed at. Next Chapter, we'll have another showdown!


	6. Collision Course

I figured it was about time I got on with this. And so now, Ghost Rider takes on Razorwire, and Centurious sets his evil plot™ in motion…

Ghost Rider is © Marvel

* * *

CHAPTER SIX:

COLLISION COURSE

The Caretaker stepped back slowly as Black Rose's blade pressed lightly against his neck. As she directed him, he reached over and opened the thick, steel door into his library. He turned to the sound of footsteps behind him.

"Where is it?"

The Caretaker looked over at the old man. His eyes narrowed, and his bony knuckles tightened around the shovel. "Centurious," he said icily. "How many times have you tried something like this?"

Centurious' hand wrapped around his neck. The powerful fingers clenched around his windpipe.

"The spirit's not in you anymore," Centurious snarled. "Where is it?"

"The casket?" The Caretaker spluttered as he was released. "I don't know what you're-" at a wave of Centurious' hand, he was slammed backwards into the brickwork.

"Do not lie to me," Centurious warned. "If you will not tell me…" he placed his hand over the Caretaker's eyes, "I will simply have to find out this way."

A heavy, echoing scream escaped the Caretaker's mouth as Centurious' mind tore through his. There was a torrent of images; a deluge of one memory after another, brushed aside as Centurious sought out the moment he'd come for.

"There we go," he said, dropping him. "Do you still wish him to be spared?" he asked his companion.

"He could be useful," Black Rose said.

"So where are the rest of you?" The Caretaker coughed.

"Razorwire should be with the Rider about now," Centurious says. "I can't really say I have a clue where Blackheart's gone."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yet another one screamed. His body was lifted off the ground by the barbed wire that cut into his wrists and ankles. Then he was silenced as the wire tore out his throat and ripped into his stomach, blood raining onto the floor of the supermarket. When the body was dropped, it joined at least three dozen others strewn around the store.

If this didn't smoke the Rider out, nothing would.

From outside, there was the sound of a roaring engine. Right on cue. Then it became clear that the wheels weren't about to stop, or even slow. They were getting faster… orange light filled the windows, and…

Ghost Rider, astride the blazing hell cycle, burst in through the window. With a flick of his wrist, the chain shot out, wrapping around Razorwire's neck. He was pulled along with it as it turned, burning clean through every aisle and shelf in a burning swath. Then it stopped, and Razorwire's momentum kept up, slamming him into the wall in a shower of broken plaster.

Ghost Rider stepped off, the chain fastening itself round his torso. "_You… GUILTY!"_

Razorwire made no reply. Instead he simply got to his feet and, with a flick of his own wrist, sent streams of barbed wire towards the Rider. The spirit raised his arms, allowing them to slice into the leather. They tightened round his limbs, suspending him in the air. A thick tangle rose in front of him, the ends of the different chords joining to form a bundle of spikes.

Razorwire paused. Only a fellow demon could tell… but Ghost Rider was smiling.

The barbed wire caught fire in a heartbeat. They turned into wires of flame as the hellfire shot up them, melting the wire in a second as Ghost Rider dropped to his feet. Razorwire shook his hand as the flames reached him, burning at his flesh.

The Rider stepped forward, brandishing his chain. "_Back to hell!_"

Razorwire and Ghost Rider threw their weapons at the same time. Wire and chain wrapped round each other, the two strugglers tugging at the knot. Each grunted, shifting their feet as a tug-of-war started.

The Rider fixed his hand further down the wire and pulled. Razorwire fell forwards, jerking as he was pulled sharply forward and into the Rider' grip. A leather-covered glove, complete with hellfire-enhanced spikes, rose in front of his face- and punched. Razorwire fell to the ground and the fist fell on him again. The floor buckled, forming a small crater as Razorwire's head was pulled back up.

Ghost Rider's chain fastened around his neck. Razorwire struggled, grabbing at his arm as the chain tightened around his windpipe. Demon or not, it seemed he still needed to breathe. After a few moments, he gave out, a few pathetic groans escaping his throat.

"_Where are the others_?" Ghost Rider roared, flames rolling in his mouth.

Razorwire grabbed at the chain and looked up at him. He pointed at something. Ghost Rider looked up, and there it was: of all things, a crappy plastic… shovel.

"_The Caretaker_?"

Razorwire nodded. Then the last breath was squeezed out of him and he fell to the floor.

Ghost Rider removed the chain. Just to be sure, he sent a burst of hellfire into his chest and watched as Razorwire's body turned to ash.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roxanne turned over another file, and started on the next one. Her cameraman peered over her shoulder.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"All the murders around here lately," Roxanne said. "Vigilante killings have skyrocketed in the last four years, all over the country."

"And this has what to do with us?"

"I'm not sure."

"Great," the cameraman said sarcastically. "Just drag me out at night any time you're not sure whether there's something for us to report on."

Roxanne ignored him, still looking over the reports. She wanted to help Johnny. She always had. But what exactly could she do? "Where are you right now, Johnny…?" she whispered.

The door into the city hall behind them opened. "Sorry," Roxanne said, assuming it to be the curator, "we'll be done in a moment."

"If you're looking for your friend," the man behind her said, "I might know where you can find him."

Roxanne turned round in a whirl. Her brow creased into a confused frown. "Who are you?"

"I'm someone who can help you," the man said. "And I think Johnny Blaze will need your help tonight."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Centurious hurled away the last pile of earth. Then, with a mad grin on his withered face, he pulled the object out of the ground. It was only a foot long and half as wide, but here it was, covered in bronze images of devils and angels and crucifixes and pentagrams…

"The Spirit Casket," he breathed. "The source of the Caretaker's power."

"You think that trinket will stop the Ghost Rider?" Black Rose demanded.

"My dear Black Rose, even the Spirit of Vengeance can't stand up to this. It's an exorcism tool," Centurious elaborated as he levitated himself out of the grave, "one that will drive the spirit all the way back to the pit. And without him… hell on earth," he grinned.

"You might want to find Blackheart, then," Black Rose said as she turned to the horizon. A mass of orange fire was snaking its way along the old road towards them. "He's coming."

"You're going to stay here?" Centurious asked. "You can't help him now."

"We'll see," Black Rose said as Centurious turned away. "It's time Johnny Blaze and I met again."

* * *

To Be Continued!

Next Chapter: Johnny Blaze faces Black Rose, and her identity is revealed- and who is that helping Roxanne? All shall be revealed, true believer…

All Reviews Welcome!


End file.
